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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455942">breathing is (an act of) living</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevalent_Masters/pseuds/Prevalent_Masters'>Prevalent_Masters</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Returning to Malta (The Old Guard), Switching, Tenderness, also porn, but also emotions, but this is just them in malta, the rest of the gang mentioned in passing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:08:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455942</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevalent_Masters/pseuds/Prevalent_Masters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You are so beautiful,” Nicky says after a moment. “I do not tell you enough. Your eyes,” he brushes fingertips over Joe’s eyebrows. “Your lips. Do you know, I dream about you every night. Waking from those dreams with you by my side is all I could have ever asked for in this life.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I do love it when you make speeches,” Joe says, stroking his cheek. “But what brings this on?”</i>
</p><p> <i>“I do not tell you enough,” Nicky repeats. “I need you to know.”</i></p><p> <br/>Or, they return to Malta in summer, when the days are long and the fruit hangs ripe in the trees.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>571</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>breathing is (an act of) living</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I KNOW everyone has already written a Malta fic but I was just thinking about them in Malta...eating citrus...bro.......</p><p>This is the only fic I've ever written that hasn't had hurt/comfort or angst as a tag so...these men deserve happiness I guess.</p><p>Title from Aoede by Mashrou' Leila (the english translation of the lyrics...so if the translation is wrong, please let me know!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s two years before they get back to Malta. It’s not that long, in the scheme of things—but then, nothing really is for them. It’s been a busy two years, no real breaks, and when there were, they’d spent them together, as a team. Getting to know each other with Nile, without Booker. And then Quynh came back, <em>surprise</em>, and that was just an absolute disaster—over a year of running and fighting and trying to figure out <em>what the hell was going on</em>. But it’s better now—Andy and Quynh are off on their own, figuring things out, which probably means riding horses across Kazakhstan or something. It’ll be awhile before they’re all back together again. Quynh had looked pretty damned determined to make up for five hundred years gone when they’d left.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So they go to Malta, as they’d promised each other. They take a ferry rather than a plane. Joe isn’t sure why, but he thinks it has something to do with Nicky’s idea of romance—not so much spoken, but demonstrated. He thinks Nicky wants to give him a memory, relived. The last time they were in Malta, the only planes flying on and off the island were military aircraft taking off and landing from a bumpy, pitted airstrip. The last time they were here, they sailed in from Sicily, like they do now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t ask. Nicky has an air about him, when he’s been planning something (<em>Planning</em>, with a capital <em>P</em>), and he doesn’t want to force him to explain, to take away the joy of it. Instead, he just looks at him, sidelong, draped against the railing, staring across the water as the shore creeps close. The sun shines through his eyelashes, lights up his eyes so the color matches almost exactly the color of the waves.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re staring,” Nicky murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Always,” he replies, and grins at him. Nicky smiles back, a twitch of his lips, eyes still fixed on the horizon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you thinking about?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky turns to him. “What are <em>you</em> thinking about?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He rests his chin on his hand and stares into his eyes. “Two weeks alone together. Swimming in the ocean. Eating pomegranates in bed and smearing the juice all over the sheets when I roll over to kiss you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky mirrors him, leaning his own head in his hand. “Go on?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There are children on board,” he says. “I can’t say the details. But it will end with pomegranate seeds all over the floor, and me making you dinner in nothing but my underwear.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky slides closer to him, until their shoulders just brush. “That would be very distracting,” he murmurs. Then, “Perhaps I’ll be making <em>you </em>dinner, in nothing at all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You always make me dinner,” Joe says, because it’s true, and then he leans in and kisses Nicky, soft and quick, before he can protest that they’re in public. He doesn’t care that they’re in public—the fact that they can even <em>do</em> this now, in some places, in public, is a gift he’s going to take advantage of, whether Nicky likes it or not. Nicky pushes him away after a moment, but he’s smiling. This place softens him, it always has. Not that Nicky isn’t soft or lovely or gentle other times—but this is the place Nicky feels most at home, Joe thinks, and he relaxes here in a way he doesn’t anywhere else. Lets down all his walls and guards and just exists.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He feels the same way. On Malta, he can breathe. They have been here in times of war—the last time they were here, it was war—but to him, it has always been a place of peace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And they have two weeks. Just them, the sun, the sea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’d bought a small stone cottage on the coast near Dingli in 1883, loaning it for free to the farm next door to house their seasonal labor in return for them looking after it in the off-season. Their neighbors think the cottage is owned by a a family of eccentric Italians, who are holding onto it as a family heirloom, and they used to go to great lengths to come up with backstories to explain to them as they grew older and Nicky and Joe stayed the same. <em>Oh, we’re their sons, yes, we look so alike; oh, we’re distant cousins; oh, him? He’s my father’s friend, here to stay for the summer....</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The farm has now passed to the original owners’ great great granddaughter, who grows grapes and lemons and tangerines and the best pomegranates either of them has ever tasted, just like her great great grandfather did. They’ve never met her before, though she’s certainly heard of their “family”. Nonetheless, they don’t need a complicated backstory this time. They show up at her door to get the key and say hello, and she introduces herself as Arianne and feeds them a simple lunch of crusty sourdough bread, sheep’s cheese, and olives. She and her partner, a deeply-tanned woman with laugh lines etched around her eyes who reminds Joe of Andy, jabber away in Maltese with Nicky while Joe stares out the window at the sea, throwing in a statement or two just to stay a part of the conversation. When they leave to go up the hill to their own cottage, she gives them a bag of produce and a box of pomegranates and tangerines. Like she read his mind. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they let themselves in—the cool stone walls smelling faintly of sheep, the same books stacked on the bookcase they left the last time they were here—Nicky drops his bags on the floor by the door and pushes Joe till they’re crowded against the wall. The old stone presses into Joe’s back and he laughs as Nicky mouths along his jaw. He pulls away slightly after a moment, looks Nicky in the eye.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Now you’ll kiss me,” he says teasingly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Should I stop?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe doesn’t dignify that with an answer, he just slides off his own backpack and pulls him back in. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s been a long time since they’ve been alone, truly alone. So much of the past few years were spent running and fighting and running again. Nights dozing off in trains or the backseats of cars, nights crammed in old safe houses, all back-to-back, protecting each other. Stretches of time where they barely slept at all. The last time they had sex was four months ago in the shadows of the cave hideout in France in the midst of a desperate search for a missing Andy, noises muffled into the palms of hands, trying not to wake Nile or Booker, who shared the space with them. Joe aches for Nicky, for the press of their bodies together, for the sated peace that comes after, lying twined together, heartbeats thundering in sync. The kisses aren’t so rare, but they speak to the promise of more, and that’s what makes Joe’s nerves sing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He opens his mouth to Nicky and Nicky presses close, presses <em>in</em>, presses him against the wall and devours him. Joe’s shirt is halfway off before he even realizes it, Nicky’s fingers fumbling with the lower buttons, and he helps him slide it off his shoulders. Nicky’s fingers skate up and down his chest, grazing his nipples, teasing low down on his belly, reaching for his belt. Joe starts on Nicky’s shirt, but his fingers fall from the buttons as Nicky undoes his belt and fly and shoves his hand down his pants.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Could we get to the bedroom first?” he gasps, shuddering against Nicky’s shoulder as he draws gentle, teasing fingers down his already hard dick. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Yusuf</em>,” Nicky sighs into him, and palms his dick. Joe gasps. “It’s been too long, I’ve been <em>dreaming</em>—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Nico, I know—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky shuts him up with another kiss and then pushes him bodily towards the bedroom. He lands on his back on the bed in a puff of dust and laughs as Nicky coughs above him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We could change the sheets, first.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Later,” Nicky says, and kneels above him, hovering, looking. He runs his fingers up and down Joe’s chest, tapping at the freckles on the tops of his shoulders, tracing the scar on his arm from when his brother—so very long ago—cut him with a knife he wasn’t supposed to be playing with. He still remembers the bright pain of that cut, the way the blood wouldn't stop flowing, the scent of the ointment his mother put on it to help it heal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yusuf,” Nicky whispers, hand settling on Joe’s chest, right over his heart. “Yusuf.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nicolò,” he replies softly, and mirrors him, hand on his chest. Nicky’s heartbeat thumps through his fingers, steady and reassuring. Nicky drops his head and closes his eyes, just for a moment. They breathe together, in and out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are so beautiful,” Nicky says after a moment. “I do not tell you enough. Your eyes,” he brushes fingertips over Joe’s eyebrows. “Your lips. Do you know, I dream about you every night. Waking from those dreams with you by my side is all I could have ever asked for in this life.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do love it when you make speeches,” Joe says, stroking his cheek. “But what brings this on?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not tell you enough,” Nicky repeats. “I need you to know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do,” Joe says, and pulls him back in for a kiss. Despite the momentary break, his dick is still straining against his underwear and all he wants is to melt against Nicky until he’s all he can feel, all he can taste; until they’re one. Nicky gives easily, lets Joe draw him in, presses himself against Joe and grinds down, slowly, maddeningly. Nicky trails his hands up and down Joe’s sides as Joe clutches at him until—finally, <em>finally</em>—he lands at Joe’s waistband and yanks his pants and boxers down in one go. They tangle around his knees and Nicky huffs against his mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” Joe laughs as Nicky pulls away to work them the rest of the way off his legs, not helping in the slightest. “Are my pants inconveniencing you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Always,” Nicky growls, yanking them off. “Sometimes I miss tunics. No buttons. No zippers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe laughs again. “I’m sorry. Modern trappings, so unnecessary.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shh.” Nicky tosses the pants across the room, where they land in a pile with a puff of dust, and silences him with his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky pulls back after a moment, panting slightly, staring at him. Joe is hard, he’s trembling. Nicky’s eyes are something he could fall into and never emerge.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I missed you,” he says nonsensically, because they’ve been together, they haven’t been apart for a long time. But Nicky nods, presses his forehead to Joe’s, breathes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I missed you, too,” he says, and it speaks to long months of fear, of watching the dark circles under Andy’s eyes grow and the wrinkles around her mouth set deep. Of trusting Booker, who so recently broke them apart, of trusting Nile, who they’re still learning. Of trusting Quynh, after she hurt them all. Of allowing themselves to be forgiven, after giving up on her. Of holding themselves on the knife’s edge, trying not to stumble. They missed each other, even as they sat side by side. They missed <em>this.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe reaches for him, draws him down, mouths into that tender spot between shoulder and neck. Nicky sighs, relaxes into him, gasps when he bites down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Please,” Joe says. “Nico.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky pulls back, stares at him, fingers hovering a hairsbreadth away from touching. “Can I?” he asks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe exhales, biting back a moan. “Always,” he says. “Always, hayati<em>.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky grins, wicked, and finally touches him, fingers tracing lightly over his hole, which clenches in anticipation. “Excited?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up. Don’t tease me, Nico.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, but you love being teased,” Nicky says, voice a low rumble that sends sparks shooting through him. The fact that Nicky can still get him like this, breathless and trembling, with just a few touches, a few words—well, Joe thanks God for it. Never a dull moment, not in nearly a thousand years. That’s a miracle in and of itself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do I?” he manages, and Nicky laughs. “Yes,” he says. “And I intend to keep you right here for the rest of the day. Maybe the whole two weeks, if I feel like it. I think you’d love that too, no?” He accompanies the words with a finger digging deep and Joe arches back and groans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Nicky says smugly, twisting his finger as Joe shakes around him. “I think so.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He clenches around Nicky, then relaxes. Nicky crooks his finger just so and he lights up, the sensation as strong as always—but what really gets him, down to the bone, is looking up at Nicky above him, brow furrowed in slight concentration, fully lost in his commitment to make him feel <em>good</em>. He’s been like this since the beginning, since their first tentative steps towards tenderness, when Joe—Yusuf, then—caught his hand and guided his fingers down, touched them to him. Then, Nicolò had hesitated, drawing back his hand. <em>I do not want to hurt you</em>, he had said, in halting and broken Derja and Yusuf had looked up at him and said <em>you could never hurt me</em>, and been surprised to find he was speaking a truth. After all, Nicolò had killed him a dozen times by then, or more, and every one of them had hurt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But the killing was over, then, and there was just the two of them, the rough weave of their cloaks laid out over sand, the warmth of the fire. It was just the two of them, and the pain was gone, and it was replaced by this. Nicolò’s gentle fingers and his furrowed, concentrated brow, Yusuf opening around him and their joining, two into one; something sacred and transcendent in the way they sighed into each other, there under the desert stars.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He remembers it forever; he remembers it now—Nicolò’s face, the care engraved in it, then and today.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nico,” he groans, and Nicky slips in another finger. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good,” Nicky sighs into him, and pinches his nipple. His hands twitch; he doesn’t know what to do with them. Wrap them around Nicky, push his fingers into Nicky’s hair and hold on, wrap his fingers around Nicky’s dick, sneak them around to Nicky’s ass? In the end, Nicky crooks his fingers just so and he can do nothing but hold on, clutching at him like a drowning man. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on,” he manages when he has the breath to speak. “I want you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have me,” Nicky says, and adds a third.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You <em>know </em>I mean—“ Joe starts, and Nicky laughs, silences him with a kiss, and slides in while he’s distracted. Joe’s nerves sing, and he makes some noise into Nicky’s mouth, something between a shout and a moan. Nicky reaches up to cup his cheek. “Easy,” he says. “I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He does. Joe winds his arms around Nicky’s shoulders, plants his heels into the dusty sheets, and bears down, pushing himself onto Nicky. Nicky stills, held taught, trembling, letting them both get used to the feeling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Move, Nico,” he finally groans. “I’m ready.” Nicky obeys, slides out slowly, then back in, just brushing against his prostate. He’s good at this, at moving at a pace that drives Joe wild, not enough and so much all at once. It fills him up, overwhelms him, leaves him gasping and begging for it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He clutches at the sheets as Nicky moves, braced above him, mouthing gently at his nipples, but eventually he can’t help himself—his hand creeps to his cock, desperate for touch to balance out the slow drag inside of him. He barely gets his hand around it when Nicky grabs his wrist and pins it above his head. He groans. Nicky smiles down at him and pulls his other hand up, too, crossing them at the wrists and pushing him down into the bed with one hand. Joe closes his eyes, shivers, tests his grip just slightly and then relaxes against him. “Good,” Nicky says softly, and speeds up, pulling out enough for his cock to drag against Joe’s hole, then bottoming out again. Joe groans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Ah</em>—“ he breathes. “Nico, Nico, I need—I need—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you need, love?” Nicky says, braced above him, sliding in and out with that maddening pace, hardly breaking a sweat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fucking <em>touch me</em>,” he manages to spit out, straining against Nicky’s grip on his wrists. He could break free, if he really wanted to—and Nicky could hold him there, too, if he really wanted, but he’s leaving him the option, in case he needs it. He doesn’t. He wants to play this game, wants to hold himself within Nicky’s grip, give up his control. But—but, he might die if Nicky doesn’t get his hands on his dick.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky just laughs. “You need it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Yes</em>,” he gasps, pushing up into him, and Nicky stills in response, pressed against his prostate. He could cry. Maybe he is. “<em>Nico</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” Nicky asks innocently, dragging the fingers of his free hand over Joe’s throat, down his chest, circling his nipples, dipping down his stomach, pressing against his pelvis. He stops short of his dick, running his hands down his inner thighs instead. Joe arches into him, panting. “You <em>bastard</em>,” he manages, and Nicky laughs again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You like it,” he says again, and damn him, he’s right. Every nerve ending sparks, a trail of pure electricity wherever Nicky touches him. He’s thrumming with sensitivity, and he thinks if Nicky actually did touch him he would probably just explode on the spot. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky starts moving again, still maddeningly slow, a steady drag in and out. “Relax,” Nicky whispers. “Keep your hands where they are.” He releases Joe’s wrists and skates his fingers down his ribs to his stomach, running one finger lightly along his dick. Joe gasps and writhes against him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Relax,” he says again, thumbing lightly at the head, and Joe tries to obey, lays back and curls his hands around the slats of the headboard, lets <em>Nickynickynickyniconicolò </em>wash over him, take him where he wants to go. Braced above him, Nicky moves ever so slightly faster, running light fingers up and down his dick, nailing his prostate with every slow thrust. He tries to push against Nicky, to speed things up, but Nicky’s other hand has a firm grip on his hip, in perfect control of the pace, the depth, everything.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He surrenders. Closes his eyes, tightens his hands around the smooth, old wood of the headboard, breathes. “Good,” Nicky murmurs from somewhere above him, and thumbs his cock, holds it in a loose fist, just enough contact to make him groan. Nicky shifts and slides in deeper. His breath catches in his throat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look at you,” Nicky says, admiring, and now his breathing has quickened. “<em>Mâvegiôzo.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“O mæ cheu,” </em>he replies thoughtlessly, mouth slipping around the old familiar words. Nicky gasps above him, bears down. He pulls Joe’s leg up high, hitches it over his shoulder, and starts fucking him in earnest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe opens his eyes. Nicky above him, cheeks flushed, stares down with something incomprehensible in his eyes. Something incomprehensible that Joe comprehends—something only he can, as the person who’s been looking at Nicky like this for 920 years. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kiss me,” he whispers, and Nicky bends down to him, folding him in half, crushing their lips together. “I love you,” he whispers when Nicky pulls back. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In response, Nicky closes his fist around his dick and strokes it, moving faster. He can tell Nicky is close by the desperate jerk of his hips, by the look on his face, the sweat beading at his hairline. He straightens slightly, hitching Joe towards him by his hips, and slides in deep at a new angle that nails his prostrate so effectively Joe screams. Good thing they’re far from Arianne’s house, good thing for the crash of the waves against the cliffs below the cottage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come,” Nicky breathes. “Come, Yusuf, you look so beautiful when you do.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky slams into him once, twice more, twists his fingers against the head of his dick, and he does. Everything whites out for a moment, all that’s left is Nicky inside him, around him, above him. Everything narrows down to their points of contact, the rest of the world fading away. His toes curl, his head tilts back, he clenches around Nicky and Nicky grunts. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he comes back to himself, he’s boneless and Nicky has stilled, though he’s still buried inside him and trembling with the effort of not moving. “<em>Move</em>,” Joe tells him, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky lets out a broken little moan and obeys, slamming into him with a complete lack of his earlier coordination and control. He tightens his fingers around the headboard and closes his eyes, lets Nicky use his body to finish, breathes into the prickles of overstimulation as Nicky hits his prostate again and again—and then his fingers tighten around Joe’s thighs and he stutters to a stop. Joe opens his eyes in time to see Nicky’s flutter shut, mouth falling open, head tilted back. He trembles through his own orgasm, quiet and gasping, and the heat of him spills into Joe, filling him up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky slumps over him when he finishes, boneless, and Joe peels his fingers one by one from the headboard, wincing as blood rushes back in. He cups Nicky’s head, running his fingers through his hair, drifting towards sleep as Nicky murmurs something intelligible, breath hot against his already overheated skin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm?” he asks distantly, scratching at the nape of Nicky’s neck. He picks his head up slightly, just enough to make eye contact. “I love you too,” he says softly, and presses a kiss, soft and sweet, to Joe’s lips. Then he rolls to the side and slips out. Joe groans at the sensation, at the feeling of his cum seeping out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stay,” Nicky says, rolling off the bed. “I’ll clean you up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe sighs and turns on his side, closing his eyes and drifting to the sound of Nicky’s bare feet on the floor, the water running, the click of a door closing. A soft washcloth dips between his legs, Nicky cleaning off the worst of the mess before dropping the cloth on the floor and climbing back onto the bed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We can take a shower later,” he says, wrapping his arms around Joe and pulling him to his chest, lips moving against the tender skin behind his ear.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm. Sounds nice. You’ve made quite a few plans for these two weeks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky chuckles softly. “Oh, yes.” His fingers tug at Joe's hair, trail over his temples, down his chin. He leans into the touch. “I have a lot of plans for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I look forward to it,” Joe mumbles, on the edge of sleep. Nicky hums something softly, but he can’t be bothered to reply. He’s drifting, cradled in Nicky’s arms, his fingers in his hair, stroking his face, and he’s safe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After an indeterminable amount of time—minutes or hours, he doesn’t know—Nicky speaks, loud enough to rouse him from his half-slumber. “What do you wish for, more than anything else?” he asks, finger tracing the plane of his nose, down over his lips, his chin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A strange question for right now, when they’re living his dreams. But what does he wish for, beyond this? To rest. An eternity—or, really, just one natural lifetime—with Nicky in this cottage, drawing and painting and writing, tending to fruit trees, reading books. Children, maybe. He thinks he would have liked to have had children, in another life. More immediately—a good dinner—grilled fish, maybe, with lemon— and for Nicky to go down on him. For Andy to be immortal again. To lose the memories of every time he’s seen Nicky die. To march back in time and erase all those times he killed him—even when he deserved it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wishes for the fighting to end. For the wars to end. For the killing to end. He wishes they didn’t have to watch it all happen, century after century, again and again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Peace,” he finally mumbles against Nicky’s fingers, blinking at him. “I wish for peace, and for rest.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky’s fingers still and he ducks back down, kissing Joe tenderly. “Oh, Yusuf,” he murmurs in Arabic. “I asked what you wish for for yourself, and you think only of the world.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m selfish,” he replies. “I want peace so I can sleep. So I can waste away days with you here. So I can keep you in bed forever. I am selfish.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Nicky says. “You are never selfish.” He falls silent, seemingly lost in thought, running his fingertips up and down Joe’s arm so lightly goosebumps rise in their wake. He’s so quiet Joe starts to drift off again, before being roused by Nicky’s soft voice. “You gave me your cloak, once. That first night after we stopped fighting, when we left Jerusalem together. You’d watched me do unspeakable things, you watched my people <em>slaughter </em>yours, I had killed you a dozen times or more—but I was cold, so you gave me your cloak to keep me warm. You should have hated me, but you gave up your comfort for the sake of mine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe snorts, though he knows Nicky is deadly serious. “I was not cold, Nico. I was used to those nights.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can never call yourself selfish,” Nicky says. “Everything you do, you do for others. You are the kindest man in the world.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe shifts, turns his head to look at Nicky. He looks lost, staring out the window with an endlessness in his eyes that makes Joe’s heart clench. He grips Nicky’s hand where it rests on his arm, squeezes. “Hayati.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky blinks, looks down at him, tries for a smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up that past.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe cups his cheek in his hand. “You are kind, too. You are selfless, too. We fight together now, don’t forget.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky smile is real, now. “You cannot simply turn every good thing I say to you back on me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can,” Joe says. “Because it’s all true.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky’s smile fades again. “I was not always kind.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. But you learned kindness, and have lived it ever since.” He kisses his cheek, his eyelid. “Come on, now. You promised to keep me in this bed for the rest of the day, but I’m thinking I might have to get up and start unpacking—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That gets his attention. With a growl, Nicky rolls over on top of him and nips at the tender spot at the junction of his neck and shoulder, hands roving. Joe laughs, and lets him.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Later, much later, it’s dusk and Nicky peels him a tangerine. It’s just past the summer solstice, and though it’s past nine the light hasn’t yet faded from the very tops of the hills. The sunset spills like gold over the sea. They sit on the small stone patio, the remains of a light dinner on the rickety table. Nicky’s shirtless, the smooth skin of his chest and shoulders glowing in the light streaming from the open back door. Joe’s wrapped in nothing but a sheet, but it doesn’t matter—this patio looks towards the sea, and they’re blocked from the sight of any neighbors by the house itself. He wonders, vaguely, if he can get away with staying mostly naked for the entire two weeks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Wordlessly, Nicky holds out a slice of the tangerine, fingers sticky with juice. He leans forward and takes it between his teeth, lets his tongue flick lightly against Nicky’s fingers. Nicky’s eyes burn into him. Joe chews, savoring the burst of sweet sour in his mouth. Nicky’s eyes trace his throat as he swallows. He leans forward and opens his mouth again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky licks his lips and feeds him another slice. When he holds out a third, Joe cocks an eyebrow. “You won’t have any?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I peeled this one for you,” Nicky says, and then he moves, straddles Joe’s lap, and slips the slice between his lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s good, though,” Joe says after he’s eaten it. “Just tart enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky leans forward and kisses him, licking into his mouth, one sticky hand reaching up to tangle in his hair. “It is,” he says when he pulls back, and feeds him another slice, and another. When the tangerine is gone, Nicky kisses him again and again, licking into him, biting gently at his bottom lip. Everything tastes of oranges and Nicky, the air itself smelling of citrus and the salt of the sea. The stickiness of the juice remains on Nicky’s fingers, tracked up and down Joe’s neck and shoulders as Nicky touches him. Joe opens up to him, clutches at him, digs his nails into his back, leaving tiny scratches that heal before he even lifts his hands. When Nicky slides down to his knees on the uneven stones of the patio, Joe doesn’t stop him. He just laughs as Nicky pushes the sheet aside and noses against his inner thigh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not tired?” he asks, and Nicky looks up at him with hooded eyes, gleaming in the light from the kitchen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Never too tired for this.” He pulls back slightly. “Unless you are?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe reaches out and tangles his fingers in Nicky’s hair, pulling him back in. “Never,” he echoes, and spreads his legs a bit for easier access. Nicky hums, mouthing along his inner thigh, biting at the places that make Joe gasp. He tightens his hand in his hair and Nicky looks up at him with lidded eyes, gaze burning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You should let it grow out more,” he says lightly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do this.” He tugs gently to demonstrate and Nicky lets him, follows his lead until his nose nestles in the thick curls around Joe’s cock.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe that’s why I’ve kept it short,” he says, slightly muffled, but Joe can tell by the quickness of his breath, by the way his pupils blow wide, that he’s playing off his own arousal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” he says, and tugs at the strands again. Nicky outright moans, the feel of it against his half-hard dick making him shiver. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well?” he asks, and Nicky rolls his eyes at his impatience and swallows him down easy, working his tongue against him, coaxing him to hardness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky’s mouth, he thinks, is one of the great wonders of the world. His lips are silk, his tongue wicked. He’s had over 900 years of practice, but Joe’s still impressed by how easily Nicky drives him to the brink. His tongue flicks, swirls around him, pulls nearly off to mouth at the head of his cock and then slides back down deep, throat opening for him, nose pressed against his pelvis, swallowing reflexively against him. He melts back into his chair, lets his head fall back and toes curl, and <em>feels</em>. The pale slope of Nicky’s shoulders, burnished in the golden glow of the sun setting over the sea. The strands of hair, silky against Joe’s fingers. His quiet groans, vibrating around his dick. After a moment, Nicky’s hand comes up to clasp his own in his hair and grips it tight, head stilling, swallowing his cock. Joe knows him well enough to guess what he wants. He braces his heels against the uneven stones under his chair and thrusts up into Nicky’s mouth, shallowly at first, then faster, deeper, tightening his grip in his hair. Nicky sighs, a gust out of his nose brushing against Joe’s skin, and lets his hand drop to wrap around Joe’s ankle. The sheet slithers to the ground. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He fucks Nicky’s mouth until he can’t anymore, until his thrusts come uneven and his fingers tremble against Nicky’s scalp. He lets him go, pushing at him gently, and Nicky surfaces, panting, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t—I’m close—I don’t want to come yet—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why not?” Nicky asks innocently, like he doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I want <em>you.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” Nicky says simply, and gets to his feet in a smooth movement, though his legs must be stiff from so long kneeling. He slides off his pants, revealing his own stiff cock. Joe reaches for it without thinking, but Nicky bats his hands away and straddles him in the chair, gripping his cock and sliding down on it in one smooth movement that makes him cry out in a mixture of pleasure and surprise. Nicky’s lips twitch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it good?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When did you—?” he asks, strangled, and Nicky smirks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“In the bathroom, before we ate.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Nicky says, and buries his hands in Joe’s hair, adjusting himself in a way that nearly makes Joe come on the spot. “I thought you might like this.” He lifts his hips, knees braced on the rickety chair on either side of Joe’s hips, and then drops down. Joe chokes, gasps into his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re going to kill me,” he manages eventually, and Nicky laughs, a real, full laugh, head thrown back and teeth glinting. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We both know I couldn’t if I tried.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh—<em>shit</em>—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” Nicky says into his ear, and twists his hips in a way that nearly sends him over the edge. “Are you close?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So close,” he groans, helpless under him, hands fluttering uselessly along his back, against his ribs. “<em>so close, Nico</em>, <em>oh my</em><em>—“</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on, my love,” Nicky says, voice husky. “Come. Come in me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Fuck</em>,” he manages to grit out before he comes, his orgasm hitting like a freight train. He gasps, arching up into Nicky, who cries out and bears down on him, biting into the tender juncture of his neck and shoulder. The orgasm spirals out of him, lasting as Nicky continues to grind against him throughout it, and when it’s over his limbs feel heavy, stars clouding his vision. The only thing real is his breathing, is the feel of Nicky on top of him, is the scent of citrus still heavy on his fingers as he grips Joe’s face to kiss him, desperate and insistent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He manages to overcome his own weakness enough to get a hand around Nicky’s dick and Nicky hisses out through his teeth, drops his head down to his shoulder, bites at his collarbone, hand tight around the back of his neck. “<em>Yusuf—“</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nicolò,” he replies, <em>“Nicolò, fuck</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It doesn’t take much. Nicky’s still sat on his dick, and though Joe’s softening in him now, he knows by the angle he’s still probably pressed against Nicky’s prostate, a constant pressure. What he really wants is to pull out, spill Nicky down onto the patio and suck his dick, but Nicky’s close, trembling against him, fingernails digging into the tender skin at the back of his neck, and to pause now would be cruel. He can do that tomorrow, in the fading light of another sunset, or in the bright light of morning. They have time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He thumbs at the head of his cock and Nicky tips his head back, shuddering. He braces Nicky’s back with his other hand and bends forward to take his nipple into his mouth, sucking it, swirling his tongue, biting gently, and Nicky tenses, grunts, and sighs his name before spilling over his fist and collapsing forward into him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He catches him, slumps low into the chair, holds him close, chest to heaving chest, as Nicky shivers and calms. He closes his eyes and turns his nose into Nicky’s sweaty hair and breathes. The moon brightens above them, the last vestiges golden daylight slipping behind the waves to the west; and he lets himself drift for a moment, eyes closed, Nicky’s body heavy against his, crickets chorusing in the tall grass beside the patio.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bed?” Nicky eventually whispers into his sweat-sticky neck, and they should shower, they should clean up the dishes and food scraps from dinner, they should really unpack—but the thought of cool sheets and Nicky’s body curled against his tempts him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bed,” he agrees, and they stumble there wrapped in each other’s arms. He falls asleep quickly, nose buried in the soft hairs at the back of Nicky’s neck, the scent of tangerines still heavy in his nostrils.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wakes before Nicky, a rare occurrence. They migrated away from each other in the night, something that only happens when they both feel very safe. Nicky sprawls out on his stomach, face tucked nearly under the pillow, one hand hanging off the side of the bed. The sheets barely cover the swell of his ass. He looks like a renaissance painting and Joe allows himself several long minutes of looking after he wakes, pulling his arm away from where it was draped over Nicky’s back and propping himself up on his elbow. Nicky still looks tired, his cheeks a little sunken, the shadows under his eyes so dark they’re nearly purple. But he also looks peaceful—the worry lines between his eyes smoothed in sleep, the loose fall of his limbs betraying true relaxation, real sleep, not the shallow sleep of missions and safe houses, always on the cusp of waking, fingers always clenched around a knife or a gun. Joe watches his back expand with every breath, the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheeks. Every so often, the breeze from the open window ruffles his hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He thinks about his sketchbook, about capturing Nicky like this in charcoal. But, he thinks, they have time. Two weeks. He will wake before Nicky again, because Nicky, over two weeks, will relax, will grow used to sleeping with nothing to wake him up, might even end their stay without a pistol under his pillow. Besides, this is an opportunity to surprise him, so he slides out of the sheets, trying not to jostle him, and throws on a pair of joggers from their still unpacked luggage. In the kitchen, he surveys the fridge and the produce from Arianne, unearths tomatoes and peppers and shallots and a carton of fresh eggs, and starts chopping. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s just cracked the eggs into the sauce and put the lid on the pan to steam them, coffee bubbling on the other burner, when he hears Nicky’s footsteps. His forehead falls onto Joe's shoulder, his nose nuzzling against Joe’s ear. He braces himself to hold Nicky’s weight, knowing without looking that Nicky’s eyes are closed and he’s probably halfway back to slumber already. “Good morning,” he says, and Nicky murmurs something unintelligible, breath whispering against his skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There’s coffee,” he says, flicking off the burner, reaching back to stroke a hand through Nicky’s hair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmmm,” Nicky replies, and nuzzles deeper into his neck. Joe pokes his side. “Go sit down.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky sighs, but pulls back from Joe and shuffles to the table, dropping heavily into one of the chairs and staring blankly at the wall in front of him through half-lidded eyes. Joe resists the urge to laugh. He pours him a cup of coffee instead, and Nicky’s eyes flicker open to meet his when he sets it down in front of him. He smiles. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” he says, voice croaky from sleep. “You didn’t need to make breakfast.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wanted to,” Joe replies, and presses a kiss to his hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shakshouka?” Nicky asks, sipping at his coffee. Joe sets a plate down in front of him and Nicky smiles. “You haven’t made this in a long time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Joe says, sitting down with his own plate. “We haven’t had a morning to ourselves in a long time.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky snorts as he starts eating. “Andy and Nile would like it, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, but you love it, so I make it for you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky looks at him and slowly lowers his fork back to his plate. He reaches a hand across the table and takes Joe’s hand in his own. “I love <em>you.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe smiles at him, at his rumpled hair and the pillow creases embedded in his cheek, at his eyes, still heavy-lidded and luminous in the soft light of morning. “I know,” he says, and Nicky smiles back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They eat in companionable silence, nothing but the sound of their forks against the plates, the clunk of coffee mugs on the wood of the table, the chorus of birds and insects from the garden, the distant sound of the waves on the cliffs. Eventually Joe leans back with his coffee and asks, “What do you want to do today?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky eyes him. “You,” he says, and Joe doesn’t miss the slight twitch of his lips, an almost unnoticeable smirk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe cocks a brow. “Anything else?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky smiles fully this time and turns to look out the window. “I don’t know. Go to the market, maybe. Bake some bread? I wonder if Arianne has starter she would part with. Or I could start my own, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Joe rests his chin on his hand and stares at Nicky, at the sun playing off his eyelashes, at the faint blue veins in his hand. “You haven’t baked bread in a long time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nicky meets his eyes. “There hasn’t been time. Not to do it right.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He reaches across the table again, tangles Nicky’s fingers his own, slots their palms together like puzzle pieces—they fit like that, like they were molded from the beginning to slot together, to walk through the world linked palm to palm. “Well,” he says, and his heart swells with the truth of the statement, with the anticipation of two weeks of sex and good food, with the sound of the waves and the taste of sheep’s cheese, with the scent of tangerines heady around them. “We have time.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Was on some super weird translation websites for the Ligurian, so if you happen to speak it and read this, please let me know if it's right (it almost certainly isn't).<br/>To my best understanding:<br/>Mâvegiôzo=wonderful<br/>O mæ cheu=my heart</p><p>I'm on <a href="https://prevalent-masters.tumblr.com">tumblr.</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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